


Double Act

by stellarbisexual



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, everything mushy, goo, sap, they love each other SFM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 09:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12318219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarbisexual/pseuds/stellarbisexual





	Double Act

_It’s summer. We should be having fun._

And thirteen is too fucking young to be trying to figure out whether you’re being protected by your own mother or imprisoned by her. 

Richie’s own parents are so hands-off that they literally don’t notice--or don’t care--that Eddie shows up on the front doorstep at midnight on a Tuesday. Eddie sometimes thinks he’d prefer it if his own mom were on that end of the spectrum, but then he may not have gravitated toward Richie, he may not have him to balance him out.

Even after the sewers, they still keep giving each other all the shit in the world in front of the others. Eddie thinks they’re overdoing it now, subconsciously putting on a show to distract the rest of the Losers from the crippling fear that it isn’t over, that _any minute now…_

The other part of that silent agreement is that when they’re alone, just the two of them, they both have full license to crumble, to just all-out lose their shit. 

Eddie has fucking _wailed_ into Richie’s neck now more times than he can count, to the point where he can recall the scent of his skin even when he isn’t pressed right up against it. Richie’s breakdowns are quieter, though he has no shortage of tears. They stream down his cheeks in quick succession, one right after the other, pooling in his clavicle. 

Tonight, Eddie’s too tired to wail. He sat up in bed and counted the days until he graduates from high school, literally sat with a calendar and, after he ran out of pages, sketched the rest of the days out in pencil until the final day of senior year. The number staring back at him shocked him into a semi-catatonic state. 

“Tell me a joke,” he pleads.

Richie laces their fingers together. “Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?” Eddie’s voice is raspy, like he’s got a bad case of allergies. But he knows now that that part of it was never real.

“Little old lady.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but he can’t help smiling a little. They’ve done this one before--it’s one of Richie’s go-to’s--but he has to do his part. “Little old lady, who?”

“Hey, I didn’t know you could yodel.”

He tilts his head, leaning it against Richie’s, reaching over and holding onto his forearm with his free hand. “‘Nother one.”

“What’s the difference between a pickpocket and a peeping tom?”

“What?” Eddie closes his eyes, finding a precious bit of peace in the lull of Richie’s voice. 

“One snatches your watch; the other watches your snatch.” The punchline is quiet, a murmur in Eddie’s ear. He can feel Richie’s eyes on him.

Eddie titters. It’s actually pretty clever, especially for Richie. “Keep going.”

There’s a smile in Richie’s voice this time. “What do you call someone who refuses to fart in public?”

“If you say me--” Eddie tears his hand away, but Richie grabs it back, holding it tighter than before.

“A private tutor.”

After a moment, the laugh bursts from Eddie’s chest like a cloud, floating on the air above them, all the way up to Richie’s ceiling. Richie claps a hand over his mouth to quiet him, and Eddie reflexively claps his own hand over Richie’s, cackling even harder at the sound of it all muffled. 

When his giggles finally fade, he pulls Richie’s hand away from his face and lays it over his heart. He hears Richie’s quiet inhale, and then the rustle of bedsheets as he shifts closer, the front of him warm against Eddie’s side. Eddie glances at him out of the corner of his eye, sees his face close, warm brown eyes staring, though Eddie doubts he can see much without the help of his thick glasses. 

“...Knock, knock.”

“What?” Eddie blurts, distracted. “I mean, who’s there?”

“Orange.”

“Orange who?”

“Orange you glad we have each other?”

“...Yeah, Rich. Real glad.”

Richie presses a kiss to his face, and it’s just a little off, a little too tender, too close to the corner of his mouth for Eddie to just accept it as one of his usual friendly busses, the ones he uses on almost everybody.

Eddie’s breath goes shallow. He fumbles at his waist for the ghost of his inhaler. “Richie. Please don’t joke about this.” _Not_ this. _I couldn’t take it. You’re_ ruining _it--_

“I’m not. I wouldn’t. I’m sorry, just--” Richie removes his hands from Eddie, untangling their fingers and sitting up in bed, giving him space, leaving him cold. “ _Jesus_ , do you have any idea how cute you are when you laugh?”

And those words, they’re just like the kiss: nothing out of the ordinary for Richie, but the way they sound in his mouth, the way his face looks as he says them, all flushed and naked and vulnerable--it’s like the world as Eddie knows it has turned upside down. Again. 

_What’s another surprise?_ He thinks as he sits up, takes Richie’s face in his hands, and kisses him back, right square on his big, soft mouth.


End file.
